Doc Martin at Night
by robspace54
Summary: Martin thinks over the events of the past day, and wonders how the future will be with Louisa, whom he's just asked to marry him. And over the next few weeks he explores what it means to be engaged.
1. Chapter 1

Questions

Louisa lies next to me in the darkness on her left side. My left hand is on the nape of her neck, my right on her bare hip. She's warm and for the first time in a very long time, I feel safe. Her hair is soft and glossy and she's snoring very softly; I'll have to tell her about that; there are a number of devices for opening the airways of the nose to prevent such from happening. The sound seems reassuring though.

Somehow my left elbow has become trapped under my side and the blood flow to my hand is impaired, the fingers partly pins-and-needles. The brachial artery is compressed, impeding proper flow to my hand. I'll have to do something eventually, before there are even temporary nerve deficits.

I turn my head and look up at the ceiling. Louisa's cottage on Rose Hill is quite nice, although it could do with a lick of paint in the lav. The cottage is filled with Louisa. Her furniture, her pictures, her smell. I turn to stare at the back of Louisa's head and in the dimness I can see upturned ends of hair stir from my exhalations. I do not snore; at least I don't believe that I do so. Been sleeping alone for so long, it's hard to say. I don't remember ever hearing anyone complain, and certainly in boarding school if I had, it would have been beaten out of me by upperclassmen.

Louisa exhales greatly and clears her throat. She sounds a bit phlegmy; expected from the snoring. I review the anatomy of the nasopharynx and wonder if Louisa has had her tonsils removed. Fairly straight-forward procedure – even did a few myself in the old days – just a few minutes with an electrocautery and they would be gone. I'll inquire if she's had them out. Could refer her to an ENT over in Wadebridge if not.

With a will I pull my mind away from surgery, larynology, and other realms of medical science and focus on the young woman lying next to me. The moment when I blurted out the question that was torturing me - absolutely torturing - for ages came out. Marry me. Please Louisa? I can't bear to live without you!

And she said YES! Oh my God she said yes. Not perhaps, not let me consider it, but she said … yes, Martin I will. Just a few short hours past. A wonder!

Her breathing changes again as I lie here in her bed; holding her and thinking. Perhaps it was the shock of her friend Polly suffering cardiac arrest as the morphine hit her. That was a panic. But the reflexes kicked in, though the gorge was rising in my throat, amid the puddles of that silly woman's blood. But she pulled through and the ambulance took her to hospital. Then as I felt sweat trickle down my back, the bile burning my esophagus and mouth, then and only then the words came out. Almost as a shout – maybe more of a prayer.

I know that at some level my attraction for Louisa is chemical – pheromones, hormones, all that. But it's also cerebral. If I wish to have children someday then I should at least, by my morals, find a wife. Perhaps if I was a father, I could set right the wrongs done to me by my horrid parents; my super competitive father and my icy mother. I sincerely wish that mum, now living in Portugal full time with her boyfriend, and father in his snooty club in London would stay in their respective holes and I never see them again.

And Auntie Joan – I must call her – then I glance at the clock – this morning and tell her that Louisa and I are to be married. It wouldn't do to have someone else tell her, but in Portwenn, where half the residents are related somehow, news of all kinds travels quickly. More likely the fishmonger or grocer will pop the news or even Dave that stupid postman.

And what of Portwenn? Will the opinionated but sweet teacher Louisa Glasson really marry Martin Ellingham – the stick in the mud, rude, boring, but oh so stuck up doctor? That's what they will think. I imagine Pauline will be all giggles, which is what she is half the time, silly girl, Bert and his son Al will be poking about, and PC Penhale is likely to have a few smart comments as well. All the rest will be coming along to Surgery with minor complaints or just to drop in. Lord I hate all that rubbish.

Yet when they leave at the end of the day, Pauline says the usual, and expected, "Bye Doc!" the cottage grows quiet. I clean the surgery, finish my notes, fix a meal – I can cook quite well – perhaps pull out the clock for a bit of work on the innards, read, then the light fades. And the silence continues. Is that what I wish to fill? The silence? Fill it with this bright, cheerful, oh so intelligent woman? Who just by her mere presence can make me tighten my jaw and freeze any words in my throat? The woman that so recently I made love to? And she made love to me? This one woman forever and ever?

Edith left me and all the others too. But this woman, in spite of me, has stayed. My hands stay touching, no holding Louisa, my left now completely numb and prickly, but my right is firm on Louisa's hip. Why do I want her? Is it chemical, biological, cerebral – or a combination? No it can't be only that. The Vicar would laugh to hear me say this, but is it spiritual? Is there some part of the human psyche that wants, no needs, someone to have and hold in the night; in the dark?

I looked it up last week, the root word of cleave is Latin – _cohaerere_ – meaning to cling together. I was operating on Mrs. Watts for a sebaceous cyst, a quite large one, on her back, and she commented that isn't it odd that the word cleave can mean both to cut apart and to stick to. After I closed surgery for the day I looked it up. The old lady was right. So man and wife as the Testament says, cleave together, but cleave also means to be cut apart.

Dawn begins to break, the room lightens, and as I hold gently snoring Louisa, I ask the dark ceiling if I will be able to cleave to Louisa and not be cleaved apart?

She stirs a bit and I move my left arm, feeling the blood return with a rush. Time to get up. I clamber out of her warm bed carefully and dress, pulling on my suit, which I had carefully draped over a chair - in spite of the apparent urgency to remove it at the time.

I look down at the sleeping Louisa. Good God I love her so. The surgery will have patients waiting. She stirs. I take a deep breath on this, the first day of the rest of my life.


	2. Chapter 2

Dams

I managed to struggle through the day, attempting to make things regular, but as usual things were not usual – _definitely_ unusual.

Bert and Al came to the Surgery and starting their pitch again to have the wedding reception at their restaurant. Frankly I'd rather throw food into the street rather than have it there, but I suppose Louisa will sort it out. Pauline was all giggles about the engagement and I could have throttled her for gossiping away on the Surgery phone. I'll have to stop that. She must feel it is her duty to spread village tidbits. And Auntie Joan was justifiably aggrieved. I'll have to make it up to her; God knows how. Just our luck to have the Postman spread the news. That's a nasty cough he has. Have to sort that out.

And just dropping my grandmother's ring onto the table for Louisa was bad form. I should have considered how else to present it. Must have been some better way.

Louisa rolls over and puts her arm over me. I don't mind. This is our fourth night together as fiancés and it's a bit disturbing in many ways. I find it hard to talk about minutia, which seems to be what Louisa wants. What does Louisa want? I peer at her and wonder what is behind that pretty face. What does she think of me?

I remember that bloody awful night when I drove Louisa back from the concert; she was quiet and seemed very odd. I distressed her with my comment about pheromones and urine. I did not know what to say to put it right. At her cottage door, she told me she didn't want to see me anymore. The look on her face was grim as she stood in the cottage doorway and when she closed the door, I felt like I had been shot.

The drive to the cottage is still a blur, but I remember lying on my bed in my suit, the flower she picked still in my lapel. That night was one of the darkest of my miserable life. There wasn't one moment that I could not discriminate how to proceed. It was like losing surgery all over again. In the operating theater I was the master of the scene. Nurses, patient, and tools all danced to my command. And then… it all went. I can't even think about that hideous day when I had to leave surgery and the patient on the table. The patient lying there with her gut cut open…

And there in my bed it was all happening again. Feeling totally helpless. Castoff by Louisa; all my fault. So I did what I had to do. The next day I dressed anew, ate breakfast, and went to the Surgery. Treated patients, dealt with Pauline, all that. And the words that stayed in my head are these, not Louisa saying she didn't want to see me any more, but from sometime before, when she said, "Martin, there are about twenty things about you that are crap!"

Twenty kinds of crap? No five or ten, but twenty? My God, this woman can read me too well. A wave of fear comes over me and fear I know all too well. The fear I felt looking down at pulsing arteries, fear of being alone and not knowing what to do, fear of being apart.

That's when she plied me with wine, although I told her I did not drink. But I did drink and something happened. I once saw a news item about an earthen dam in India or somewhere. A monsoon washed it away. All that work – the careful placement of each clod of earth – just gone. The two bottles of wine we shared, that was the monsoon. Monsoon Louisa Glasson.

And I was able to what exactly? I'd built a bulwark against the flood. I'd built it every day since I left London and came to Portwenn. But Louisa… she took most of my dam away. But I can tell that Doctor Martin Ellingham is trying to build it up again.

That night I lay in bed fully dressed with the yellow flower in my lapel – I could have been layed-out for my funeral. It felt like Death, which would have been easier. Ghastly.

She holds me close and I kiss her cheek. Louisa murmurs in her sleep and her arms tighten their grip. The yellow flower she gave me at the concert, I took it from the lapel and made to throw it into the bin, but something stopped me. I held the tiny flower and kept it. It now resides between the pages of Manning's _Guide to Gastrointestinal Disorders _on my bookshelf.

The clock on the nightstand reads 3:17 AM and I close my eyes. What does Louisa want? Her breath is warm on my face; her arms hold me tight with a leg thrown over mine. She wants me. And I want her. The dam crumbles a bit more.


	3. Chapter 3

Papers

Louisa leans over her kitchen table and the wooden surface is covered with school papers. She gnaws on a red pen as she reads a paper. They're her student's history assignments. The kitchen light gleams off her glossy hair. She's wearing the green print dress and a sweater. We've eaten dinner and cleared away, so her table becomes a desk.

"William," she says and shakes her head. "How many times have I told you to spell coronation properly? Honestly." She strikes savagely with the pen, turns the page and sighs loudly.

"Problem?" I ask.

She smiles. "No. Just the thought that the term is almost over and some of my students… you know."

"Know what?" I ask.

Louisa laughs. "Don't know much. Either I am a terrible teacher, or they spend far too much time in front of the telly or playing video games."

"Ah." I turn back to the ledger I am reading.

"Ah?" she asks and looks up.

"What?"

"You said _ah_ like it meant something." She aims the Biro pen like a spear at my face.

"No, just ah."

"Ah as in I agree with you? As am I a bad teacher, or the students don't work hard, or the _ah_ means you're not paying attention?" Her eyes pierce mine.

"No… I meant, ah… that is…" I stammer. "Louisa, I mean…"

Her face melts and she smiles as she turns back to the papers. "Martin," she laughs and shakes her head.

I am baffled by this exchange. I turn back to the ledger book trying again to tote up today's receipts. It was a busy day in Surgery today; twelve patients and I am tired. But Louisa distracts me. Is that bad?

The epidemic of spores courtesy of Janet Sawle is finally under control. Hard to believe she had set up a laboratory in her scruffy basement. I came close to a complete epidemic there. Public Health would not have been happy - could have lost my license.

I'm trying to determine if I can acquire an office X-ray machine from the office accounts. I could dip into my savings, now diminished that I sold the flat in Kensington and shipped money off to my father. Having that piece of equipment would keep patients here, forestalling a long trip to hospital for X-rays. I'll have to see.

"Martin?" Louisa asks.

"Yes."

"I have to get these assignments marked. If you want to go to bed, don't stay up on my account."

"Well," I say. No need to stay, I think. "I'll leave." I stand.

She frowns. "Martin, it's not like that! I just mean… you don't have to stay up."

"Alright." I close the ledger with a snap. "Good night." I stiffly walk to her, she raises her face, and we kiss.

Louisa pats my hair. "Goodnight, Martin."

"Goodnight." I turn and climb the stairs to her bedroom. Her large bed nearly fills the room. I skirt around it and from the window can see the Surgery across the bay. The windows are dark but the houses on either side are lit.

I strip down, put on pyjamas and go brush my teeth. The cold tap over the tiny washbasin trickles water, a drip I have heard each night I have stayed. Each night… I try to count how many and lose track. I tighten the faucet best I can to no avail.

Perhaps Al Large can be pried from the kitchen of his father's restaurant to fix it. His dad Bert maintains that he has renounced all calling as a plumber, but his skills as a restaurateur are less than sterling. Still the man tries hard.

I return to the bedroom, placing my mobile phone on the left-hand bedside table. The battery has a full charge, unluckily, so if I am called out, I'll have to go. I turn off the lamp and slide into bed, the sheets are cold. Past times Louisa was already in bed and her body heat had warmed the bedclothes. On my own at the moment and it's odd to be in her soft bed alone in the room surrounded by her things.

Shivering I try to approach sleep. The X-ray, the wedding, Louisa whirl about for a while then calm down. My last memory is hearing the sea rising and waves beating the cliff below. Sometime later, I lay in the dark, and I heard a chair scrape the floor downstairs, sounds on the creaky stairs and a door opening. More footsteps follow, a rustle of clothing, water running in the loo and then more footsteps.

I'm lying doggo on my left side when the bed springs complain as a body joins me. She rolls over, plumps her pillow, fusses with the blankets then stops. I feign sleep. Inches away I can hear Louisa breathing softly, then she rolls toward me and placing her arm around me, pulls herself close. I try not to react but the press of breasts and thighs is firm.

She softly asks, "Martin?"

"Yes," I murmur.

"You asleep?"

"No."

She puts her head next to mine on the pillow. "School papers got marked. All done."

"Oh."

Silence. She squirms her right arm between my waist and the mattress and kisses my cheek.

"Martin?"

"Yes?"

"It's not that late."

"Ah."


	4. Chapter 4

Goals

Louisa came to my cottage this evening. I had to drive to hospital for a District Health meeting this PM and got back late. She's sitting on the leather couch in the lounge watching the television I almost never turn on. At the moment, I just want to clean up then off to bed. I can tell that she wants to, as the adolescents say, "hang." The same behavior I see in Al Large around Pauline.

I pull off my coat and tie, as my shirt is soaked with perspiration after the long day, and throw them on the kitchen table. It was sunny this afternoon and the Lexus A/C is acting up – so too warm. A load noise, a gunshot, comes from the telly. "Louisa, what rubbish are you watching?"

"Murder in Suburbia," she says. "They're replaying the whole series. I just adore this one policewoman."

"Never heard of it."

"Martin, you really need to relax. You can't work all the time."

"I don't," I say and the words come out smartly. "Louisa, would you turn that off?" I continue as more mayhem comes from the TV. I've considered having the thing taken away and cancelling the license.

She punches a button on the remote and slams it down on the table. "There!" She slaps the table with her hand as well. "Happy now?"

"Louisa…" I begin but stop.

She looks at me with a little less fire. "Martin, where are we going?"

"Going? Had you planned on going to the The Crab tonight?"

"You are so thick!" She leaps to her feet and heads to the front door.

"Louisa, what is wrong with you?" I manage to choke out.

"Martin, we are to be married in a bit more than three weeks, if the date the Vicar mentioned opens. The poor girl called him in tears again today about the likely cancellation of _her_ wedding." She crosses her arms. "So is this really going to happen? Will we get married?"

"Yes, I suppose."

"You suppose? Martin Ellingham, you can be such a bloody fool at times!"

I sense this will not be a night of sweet nothings or anything else sweet. "Louisa, I am tired and I need rest. That is my goal at the moment."

Louisa whirls in a circle, her arms flying out, finally collapsing on the couch, where she began. She groans through gritted teeth.

Have you injured yourself?" I ask.

Louisa's groan shifts to a heavy sigh and she shakes her head. "No." She tilts her head from facing the ceiling to facing me. She levers herself higher and says, "Goals – and I'm not talking about football!"

"Yes?"

"Martin, when you came to Portwenn, what were you looking for?"

Somehow I can tell I am on quaking ground but I stupidly plow on. "I came for the job - the GP spot."

"Anything else?"

"Not really." I say far too quickly.

She sits up and stares daggers at me. "I think Martin, that you came to Portwenn to hide."

"Hide? You must be mad!"

"Yes, Martin. Hide! Cornwall is about as far from London as you could get, and then you tried to bury yourself in your work."

She may be right. But before I can say anything else she goes on.

"So here you are in this backwater, as my London friends say, but you can't hide. In London, you were one of hundreds or thousands of doctors, but …"

"I couldn't stay there, Louisa! You know that! Blast it! You claim I wanted to hide in Portwenn?"

"Martin you could no more hide in Portwenn then… oh forget it!" She jumps up, angry now. "You just think about where you're heading!" She leaps to her feet and dashes off.

The front door slams behind her and I follow to see her disappear down the road, her brown pony tail swishing madly.

I am tired, smelly, and confused. I only want to shower and go to bed. So I go to the bathroom and switch on the water heater, strip off and climb under the slightly chilly spray. The water beats on my face and I try to put the tiff with Louisa out of my mind. I manage to replace the scene with the proceedings of the meeting today. How farm run-off may be impacting local water supplies, the tally of the past winter's influenza outbreak, plus the rise of road-side pedestrian injuries with increased traffic. Speaking to the health commissioners, I also abandoned my idiot thought about an X-ray for the surgery. Was I trying to build my practice on the Yank model? I think not.

But Louisa's words sting. Right to the heart. William Tell could have been no more true with his aim than her words. Goals? Well, if I have to list them, I've achieved them. Started the GP practice, cleaned up the mess the old doc left, tried to master a demon or three, made a few… perhaps one or two … friends, I think. And along came Louisa. Have I met my goals? I don't really know.

I lather and shampoo and as the water pours over my head, I hear the bathroom door open. "Hello?" I shout. Someone steps into the room. I flip off the taps and wiping the water off the glass panel see a wavy image of Louisa standing there.

I open the door, drag in a towel and wrapping myself, face her as I step onto the tiles. "Louisa? Is something wrong?"

"Just tell me," she says looking stricken. "Tell me… again. Please."

I look at her; her hazel eyes dark with worry. "I love you," I say.

"And I love you," Louisa answers.

I go on. "And I want to marry you." She relaxes as I say this.

She leaps on me, kisses my mouth and pulls back. "That's what I thought," she says, then dashes off.

I stand there at a loss, dripping water on the floor. Goals met? I really can't tell.


	5. Chapter 5

Bodies

Bodies come in all types: ectomorphs, endomorphs, healthy, sick, male, female, old, young, living and dead. I remember the body I had in medical school. It was male, endomorph, old, and very dead. We named it Billy at first but as we delved into his works, found massive amounts of coal tar in his lungs, so he became Guy, as in Guy Fawkes. Poor sod had been a smoker, and from the carcinoma we found as well it was obvious what had ended his days. He also had distinctive tattoos on both arms.

Years later I had a patient who was telling me about her granddad and described Guy the cadaver to a T, finished up telling me as how the old man had his body donated to science. In one of my rare moments of humanity I actually stopped myself from telling her that I had cut him up into mincemeat – all in the name of medicine.

The bodies who come to my consulting room are much the same. Just add obstinate, oblivious, clean or dirty to the list. One of the local fishing fleet had a blackened toe – blackened from dropping a piece of fishing gear on it – and it seemed to be broken. It took some time to discern that the toe itself was bruised, given how the blackness of grime and filth extended up his entire leg. He told me that he was not given to bathing. I could only reply, no kidding. I prescribed daily bathing with water and soap as an added regimen to promote healing - of the broken toe.

Other bodies; Louisa would say people; can be sitting right in front of me with a raging temperature, lungs filled with pneumonia, a hacking cough sending sputum all over me, and tell me it's just a bit of cough. Add daft to my list above.

When I was interviewed for the GP spot in Portwenn, Louisa tripped me up, clearly smarting over the way I was staring at her on the plane; making me confuse patients, bodies and people. Patients were those in my care, bodies were of the anatomical variety or on the post-mortem table, and people includes everyone, or so I have learned to catalogue them.

But back to bodies, I was sitting in Louisa's sitting room, and she was giving me a fashion show of sorts. I was also trying to read the British Medical Journal; a rather interesting article on diseases of the kidney seen in certain sub-populations of people (not bodies) who ate a diet particularly high in salt fish. I moved on to read a study of post-orthopaedic rehabilitation of lower limb impact victims.

"Martin?" Louisa asked.

I looked up to see Louisa wearing a grayish-black suit, fitted slacks, with single button coat with wide lapels. A sort of white blouse completed the ensemble.

"Like it?" she asked. "I've been waiting for this to arrive. Had to order it special."

"Yes, nice."

"Just nice? I thought it would be proper to wear on our wedding trip."

"Ah. Barefoot?"

She looked down at her feet on the slate. "Needs pumps, of course."

"Smart then." I went back to the journal.

She walked back upstairs and I could hear rustling of wrappings.

Bodies. I was in training and they brought in a poor bloke from a motorcycle crash. Legs broken up with horrible mangling of the feet. I was given charge of his left foot and by careful transplanting of the patient's own veins was able to restore his distal pulse. I looked across the operating table to see my colleague, a rather dim student named Cox, preparing to amputate the right foot. I shouted at him, hounded him away from the table and proceeded to repeat the same procedure on the right. Pulses came back and the foot grew warm. I checked on the patient later that day in the recovery area, and was surprised to see him handcuffed to the bed, a police officer in attendance. I found out my patient was fleeing a robbery when he crashed. At least he would be on his feet in prison.

"Martin, what about this?"

Louisa was wearing a short red print dress, no cardigan, sleeveless. V-neck and noticeable. She struck a pose as I looked up.

"Nice."

"Again with the nice."

"I do like that. Similar to your green one, yes?"

"Yes. Martin, I do like this one. But the material is different." She swished about, the skirt rustling. "About our wedding trip… where are we… going?"

"I really don't know. Where do you think? I can only close surgery for one week."

"Me too. The school can only run without a head teacher for so long."

"We'll sort it. Think about it."

"I will." She ran back upstairs. "By the way, the vicar called today. It looks like the date opened up. Three weeks from last Saturday." She called. "Hope that's alright!"

"Three weeks doesn't give us much time."

The next Journal article was about a rather thoughtful read about treatment of those with gender dysphoria – those who believe that they have been born into the wrong body – men who wish to be women – and vice versa. It's a most perplexing issue. I've never seen a patient with the condition; thought-provoking though.

Louisa came down the steps once more. "Martin, how about this?

She was wearing a white, diaphanous, clingy, long sort of thing. There wasn't very much cloth in it, but it was obviously designed to both reveal and conceal.

"Ah, I like that."

She smiled. "I thought, that…"

"Oh right, the honeymoon."

She frowned. "Martin? Do you want me?"

"Of course, I do!" I started to stand.

She held up her hands in the universal sign to stop. "No wait, one more!"

She dashed off again. I shook my head. Bodies, I thought.

Male and female. The males suited for strong activity, larger muscles, more robust bone structure. Deep voices, slightly less acute hearing in the upper ranges than females – probably due to larger inner-ear bones, less able to resonate at higher aural frequencies.

The female in humans smaller generally then the male. Finer bone structure and thinner muscles, higher pitched voices, a thicker layer of body fat to maintain core body temperature, yet better hand-eye coordination. I understand women actually are better surgeons for fine structure repair – nerves and blood vessels.

Without remarking on the obvious differences of the sexual organs, a most remarkable difference in biology. And psychologically far more difficult to understand, like two nights ago when Louisa dashed off.

Humans. Whether their behavior is more like angels or devils I will leave to the Vicar and God to sort out.

There were footsteps upstairs and they descended. "Close your eyes," I hear her call.

"Ok."

I hear her move about the room.

"Alright, look. Remember this?"

I saw Louisa standing there in black trousers, a red and white striped top, black vest with some sort of silver trim, and a red patch over her right eye.

"You're a primary school teacher dressed as a pirate." I never forgot this one. "The day of the fair and I made that bloody mess of the announcements."

"Yes you did." She comes across the room, takes the Journal from my hands and climbs into my lap. Her female arms wrap about my neck, long women's legs across my lap, her slender torso presses mine. She looks me eye-to-eye. "Martin, what do you think?"

Bodies. "I like this one best of all." I pull off they silly eye patch, her glaucoma long cured, and kiss her.


	6. Chapter 6

Cottages

Fern Cottage, the property I bought when I moved to Portwenn, is solid, old, grey, and not modern. It serves me well as home, office, and consulting surgery. Easy to commute to work which is just downstairs. But smells of antiseptic, which I use to wipe down the surgery counters and examining table, drift upstairs. Breakfast smells make their way into the surgery waiting room, making Pauline's mouth water early in the morning, which she comments on. "Rasher and eggs," she calls out, to my irritation.

Louisa's rental, White Rose Cottage on Eastcliffe is newer by a few decades than Fern Cottage. But not as solid either. Rising winds can make it shake and the windows rattle. But it is not grey outside nor green inside. White is the color of my lady's home, contrasting with the slate floor. Two bedrooms, bathroom upstairs, with sitting area, kitchen and laundry below. Louisa has lived here three four years and she fits into the house like a foot into a glove. The rear terrace, suitable for barbies, overlooks the bay and my own more grim cottage across. Mere steps to her school, and quite handy to eating, shopping, and pubs.

I mull this over as Louisa compares two lists. One shows her furniture the; other mine. I pared down a lot of things when I moved here, the Kensington flat was large, and I had furniture from my student days. But still.

"Too much furniture, do you think?" I point to the lists. "Two tables, two couches, two cookers…"

"Yes, Martin, two of everything. Just about. Two cottages as well."

"We could live in my house. There is room; it's not that far of a walk to the school…"

"Or you could live in my house," she interrupts.

"But after four PM surgery is closed and I can park my car just outside my door. You don't have a car, but there's no parking at yours. Have to hike uphill or downhill. Bloody nuisance!"

"But Martin, I like my house! I mean, yours is alright, it works, but the plumbing…"

"Louisa, yes I know! The pipes are awful at the Fern. We've been over this and over this. Something has to give."

"And if I live here and there is an emergency? All my meds, tools, will be over there. A mad dash if there ever was one."

"But Martin, your house has no terrace. No nice grills." She picks up her wine glass, swirls the contents, a white, and peers through it. "We'll not decide this tonight, will we?"

"No. I don't see how we can."

Louisa walks onto her loved terrace and leans over the rail. "Martin, come out here!"

I follow and at her side look at the harbor. The lights are coming up as the sun starts its run to the horizon. I take a deep breath, and sense in salt air, a filled garbage bin from next door, and Louisa's flowery scent. Must be that hair conditioner gel she uses.

"Look at that, Martin. The view is better from here."

She's right. "I suppose we can let out the upstairs at the Fern. But no outside access would be issue. The stairs run right into the waiting room. Can't very well have a lodger come mucking through in the AM to the kitchen, can we?"

She sighs and takes my arm "No."

"Possibly we can move the surgery? Must be an empty building here in the proper town I could use."

"But everyone knows Fern Cottage _is_ the surgery. Doctor Sims practiced there forever. If the surgery was moved, you'd have little old ladies queuing outside the door, if you weren't there. No matter how many flyers you put up."

"Argh. What to do, Louisa?" I lean heavily on the rail, feeling a splinter bite into my hand. "Louisa this blasted rail of yours has just driven a splinter into my palm."

"Poor Martin." She takes my hand in the dimming light tries to tease the bit of wood out. "Hold still!"

"That hurts, Louisa! Stop." A glance shows she's driven the thing in. I hold the injured member in her face. "Now you've pushed it in further. I'll have to go to surgery…"

"Shush. Let me work on it. Come on, big baby." We go back inside and Louisa gets out a sewing basket and first aid pouch.

"Good God! You're not planning to extricate it with a sewing needle! And who know how many seagulls have shat on that rail."

"Martin, again shush. I'm not totally helpless. Now sit right here," she pushes me down onto the couch, "and let me work."

To her credit she washes the area with an antiseptic, alcohol from a packaged swab, cleans a needle and pair of tweezers, adjusts a spot lamp and goes to work. I avert my head as the point pushes into my hand. "Damn, Louisa, be careful! If you push it much further I'll have to drive to hospital for a cutdown…"

"Martin, shut up. For once I get to say that. There. Silly thing, all better."

I glance at my hand and a spot of blood is visible. "Uh… Lou…" the room swims as I gulp air.

"Martin, you silly goose, there fixed."

I look. A neat adhesive covers the spot. No more sweat breaks out on my forehead and underarms. Deep breaths.

"Better, now?" She pats my head. Kisses my cheek. "You're just a big sissy."

"I hope not." I examine the appendage. "You'd have made a fine nurse."

She laughs. "Martin, from you that is a great compliment! Now how about dinner?"

"Yes, where?"

She purses her lips. "The Crab?"

We walk down the street, the warm night has arrived, sky a still aglow. Passing other walkers who greet us, I am amazed at the life of Portwenn on this night. Having Louisa by my side eases my brusqueness and I know the answer. It is because of her.

We enter the restaurant and are seated. She asks for wine. I get ice water.

"Louisa," I say and take her hand. "I've decided."

"Oh? You've decided? Don't I get a vote?"

"Yes, you already have. I'll live with you, in your cottage; I'll park a bloody mile away if I have to! Hell, I'll live in an igloo or a tent if that will make you happy."

"Yes, Martin, it would!"

"Good that's settled then."

"Which will it be the igloo or the tent?" She laughs.

Crew from the lifeboat station barge over and congratulate us on the engagement. They pump my hand and kiss the bride to be. They all admire Louisa and I am glad to say, that I do to.


	7. Chapter 7

Tides

Tides go in and go out. Driven by the orbit of the Moon, the spinning of the earth and even gravity's pull from the sun and other planets, the waters of the Earth slosh back and forth, or so I have read. I'm looking at PC Penhale assist some poor sod to save his car from the rising tide. I've never parked my Lexus on the tidal flat, too much muck and salt, but some visitors to Portwenn do so. I'm watching the drama play out.

A breakdown truck has attached a tow and as the cable draws taut, the mud releases the car, as Penhale waves his arms in unnecessary directional moves. The car is saved and the tourist, a German, leaps gratefully on the breakdown driver and forces wads of money on him. The car starts, none the worse for wear or water and drives off, just a story for the grandkids, leaving a sticky trail of mud as it goes up the hill.

Time and tides wait for no one and Louisa is late. I check my watch. As we agreed it's 7:30, and I don't see her. Joe Penhale departs in the patrol rover, waving happily. Another Volvo saved from the sea. I wonder if he's keeping a tally? Three have been lost so far this season to the rising tide.

Thirteen lunar months in a year, roughly equal to the human female reproductive cycle. There must have been some very ancient marine organism that based it's reproduction on the rising and falling of the maximum tides, occurring every lunar month, or 28 days. Millennia later, it has become the cycle for humans. Curious.

The lifesavers are washing their boat after an afternoon of drills. Pauline dashed off at 5 when the pager buzzed, no doubt glad to escape the surgery, but probably disappointed it was only a drill. If it had been an actual emergency they'd have rung me as well. I've reviewed the boat's emergency kit and it all looks very efficient and the crew are all well trained. Good lads and lassies. Last week they saved a fisherman off Mouls Rocks.

No Louisa yet. Tourists, the locals call them _grockles_ without favor, wander about but the town is growing quiet. Ah, there is Louisa by the Aquarium. She waves and I go to her.

"Martin!" she takes my arm. "Sorry I'm late. Got tied up with paperwork, you know." She wears black trousers and that green sweater top. Passing tourists and fisherman look her over, and so do I.

"Yes. Hello."

"Something wrong? Oh, you're irritated about my lateness."

"No." I try to change the subject. "To dinner?"

"Yes, but not that hungry. Had a late lunch."

"Oh, well I had no lunch."

Louisa takes my arm. "Well, let's get you something to eat. Take away?"

"Alright." She takes me to the fish and chips place. We buy dinner and walk up the hill to the surgery. The light is fading as we walk.

"Martin, look up." The moon is high overhead and a quarter full.

"Yes, I was watching a tourist get his car towed off the tidal flat because of the tide. All because of that." I point to the ball of rock overhead.

"Martin, you are such a romantic." She shakes her head. "But I do try to change you."

"You think I need changing?"

She smiles as we reach the surgery. "Perhaps a bit of polishing. Take off some of your rough edges."

I take a bottle of wine from under the kitchen counter and plop the fish and chips on the table. Louisa uncorks the wine and pours some for herself. I fill a glass with tap water. "Sure that stuff's alright?" she asks. "You do remember the water scare when you arrived."

"How can I forget? That bloody Caroline getting me on the radio."

"Martin, she did not put words into your mouth. You did."

"Louisa, let's not argue." I lay out plates, cutlery, and linens.

"Are we arguing?"

I frown at her. "Not yet."

"Planning one for later?"

"No." Louisa has the ability to sooth or to drive me mad. I put my ill humour as hunger.

I tuck in as Louisa nibbles on her chips. A proper Englishman would eat fish and chips with beer and mushy peas. Beer I can do without and mushy peas have always seemed like a waste to me. Louisa would drink wine for breakfast. The meal doesn't last long, I eat like a wolf tonight but she just picks at things.

We clear away the scraps and Louisa takes the remnants of her wine to the sofa. "Come out here and talk to me."

"Alright." I push the bits into the bin, stack the dishes for the dishwasher later and go out. She's reclined on the couch, but folds her legs up, so she can put them in my lap as I sit down. "Here I am. What?"

She tips her head side to side and gives me a long stare. "Martin…" she pauses. "Massage my feet, they hurt."

I have known Louisa Glasson long enough to know that when she starts like this, something is brewing. "Go on." I take her left foot in my hands and start kneading it.

She stretches her head back and then clears her throat. "I was thinking… about us and… kids."

"Kids?"

She laughs and takes strands of her long brown hair in her left hand and twists them. "Kids – children. You know. They start out as babies, grow up, go to school; drive their parents and teachers mad in the process."

"Yes. I know what children are. You deal with them every day and so do I, at least one or two."

"Well, I was thinking that we need to talk about them." The hair twisting continues, only faster. She bites her lips and asks, "What about our children?"

"Oh, yes. Well, if you want to, we could have them."

"If I want to?" she replies, and then shouts. "If I want to?" She strikes my arm holding her foot. "Martin! Damn it."

"Ow! That hurt!"

"Oh, so you _can_ feel something?" She sniffles and I see a tear bead up and roll down her cheek.

I know that I have done something very bad. "Louisa, let me get a tissue," I begin and try to rise, but she stops me.

"Just stay right there." She clamps down with her legs and I am as trapped as a prisoner in stocks. She wipes her face with a hand, but more tears well up. "I mean… don't you want to be a father?"

I gulp thinking of my smarmy father. I am silent for a few seconds until I can get my thoughts under control. "Louisa, I'm not sure… I…" I think of my cold mother. What a pair.

"Martin, I know that you had a tough life, tougher than mine. My mother was no gem. But we can start over. Martin, we can be real parents. Have a real family."

A real family. I saw one today. The father, Alf – farmer, Josephine – house wife and mum, and their daughter Mary. The little girl had strep, the father had an ear infection and rhinitis, and the mum was tired out. I treated all three. Antibiotics for girl and da, vitamins and a chat up about coming into town for ice cream, shopping, eat at a pub.

Josephine's eyes brightened as she took Alf's hand. He shyly squeezed it, then embarrassed, let the hand drop. I even suggested that one of the local girls might be able to sit with Mary for an afternoon or evening while they went out. Just a picnic or a meal, I suggested.

PC Mylow had taught me that in Portwenn, there is often the right way and the smart way. They left smiling carrying their prescriptions and little Mary jingling the pocket change I had pulled from the desk drawer for ice cream. She was four years old. There went a bit of smart medicine out the door. I felt positively good until Pauline started yelling about how it was getting late, and she had somewhere to go, and I still had three patients waiting.

"Yes. I know, Louisa. We could do it. Something to think about it." I say and smile at her. "I won't say no, if that's what you're asking."

Her face brightens. Louisa pulls her legs off my lap and pulls them to her chest. "I needed to know. But it won't be until we're ready. Right?"

"And no public school. I'll not have any child of mine, uh ours, packed off like baggage."

"Alright." She sniffles some more, but the tears look happier.

"Louisa, there will be a right time."

"Yes, Martin. I had to know."

I stand, grasp a tissue from a dispenser and hand it to her. She wipes her eyes, blows her nose, and hands it back to me.

"Thank you," I say as I grimace at the feel of the soggy tissue.

"Oh, Martin. If you can't handle a little snot, what would you do with a baby?"

"I'd read the manual or hand it to its mother."

She laughs and her voice fills the room. Louisa follows me to the kitchen sink and rubs my back as I wash her nasal discharge from my hands.

"Come on, let's go to town. I think I want ice cream," she tells me.

"It's getting late, and I have an early call out on the moor, quite a few miles away. Do we have time?"

She looks at her watch. "It's only nine-ish. But I can do without." I expect her to leave, but she takes my hand and kisses me. "I have a better idea."

Upstairs she pushes me onto the bed and pulls off my tie. I start to speak but she puts her hand on my lips.

For some reason I think of the Volvo caught by the sea. Tides can be treacherous. I am unsure whether this tide is rising to drown us or a falling one to sweep us away.


	8. Chapter 8

Words

Vocal communication allows humans to trade information. Questions and answers – sentences, paragraphs, single words. From a sonnet to a single word, information is sent and received. Today we have mobiles, emails, the internet and computers, along with printing presses, magazines, books, and the Royal Mail to help us be in touch at a distance.

Up close we can just talk. Louisa is quiet tonight. Either she is emulating my reserved character, or she has nothing to say, which I find impossible to believe.

"Louisa, is there a problem?"

"No," she says and turns back to her book. The book appears to be two inches thick and rather weighty.

"Interesting book?" I ask her.

"So far." She glances over me I read the paper. It's a quiet night. We ate at Louisa's cottage and now it's full dark.

The silence is total, punctuated by the flipping of pages, paper and book. "Tea?" I ask after twenty minutes.

"No, not really."

"Mind if I brew up?"

"Go ahead." She says, engrossed in the book. I can't quite see the title but can make out one word – the bold word _Mars_ on the cover. I had no idea she was reading science fiction. Can't stand the stuff myself.

In her kitchen, I fill the kettle and put it on the cooker. I peer around the living room and Louisa sits there nearly motionless as she reads. She could be a statue. I rack the dirty dishes into her dishwasher and wipe the counter while the kettle boils. Two cups of water doesn't take very long to heat but I gather the kitchen sack from the bin and take it to the wheelie bin outside.

When I return the kettle is whistling away. The tea leaves goes into the tea ball and I carefully time the process as the boiled water strips complex tea molecules into the pot. This Kenya Black tea brews nicely in about three minutes, but I like mine strong. I prepare a tray and put on it the tea pot, milk, sugar, two mugs, and two spoons.

The tray precedes me into the room and Louisa notices the smell. The tray goes onto the table, and I pour, tea, milk, one sugar into the orange mug and hand it to her.

"Oh, thanks Martin!" She sounds surprised. "I didn't really ask you to…"

I take the red mug in hand and settle back in the chair. "You needed tea."

"Ok." She goes back to her book but sips the tea anyway.

"I was hoping we could talk about…"

She cuts me off. "Would you let me read this?"

I hoped we could iron out plans for the honeymoon trip, but no. I'd found some flights to Spain that seemed reasonable or we could just drive up north. We'll talk later perhaps. The newspaper is filled with a lot of rubbish about sports, financials, politics, local councils and all that. I'm only reading it as I forgot my BMJs. They're sitting on the counter at the surgery. Louisa doesn't seem to want to talk, but I try anyway. "Louisa?"

"Um?" she says not taking her eyes off her book.

"What's your book about?"

"Oh, not much. Rather boring really."

I don't believe her. "Boring or not it's holding your attention like a magnet."

"Oh, sorry. Just engrossed." She reluctantly lowers the book, closes it with a snap and drops it on the floor. "Happy now?"

The sound echoes through the room. "No! What is the matter with you? You've been like this all night!"

"Nothing," she says, but I don't believe her.

"Well, you're acting odd."

She glares at me. "Yes. You're right, I do feel odd."

Perhaps strange would have been a better word. "Louisa, I'm... just wondering what is wrong."

"You are asking me what is wrong?" she says and takes a deep breath. "Nothing, Martin. Not a thing." Yet she's sitting there wound up like a tight spring.

"Louisa, if you'd only tell me…"

Her eyes roll to the ceiling and back to me then she stands and crosses her arms. "Maybe you'd better leave. Right now!"

I drop the paper and get up. "I will. Goodnight."

Louisa drops back onto the sofa. "Goodnight," comes out and she says this through gritted teeth.

"Louisa, what have I done? Give me a clue…"

"No."

"Then I'll just put the tray in the kitchen."

"Damn it, Martin. Leave it," she half shouts. "Go!"

I stalk through the kitchen to the door and pause. I'd go back but she has such an angry look. I open the door, walk through and close it. I stand in the narrow street and wonder what all that was about. Before I can take a step, the door flies opens and she peers out.

"Martin, it's not you; not really. Come back here."

I turn and she hugs me and kisses my cheek. I try to say something but she puts her hand on my mouth.

"Shush. Goodnight, Martin." She closes the door and I'm totally baffled. I slowly take a few steps as Miles, one of the fishermen, walks past me.

"Evening doc!" he calls. "I heard that!" he whispers as he passes. "It's not what women say that matters; it's what they don't say that matters." He claps me on the shoulder and disappears up the street.

My head spins with the illogic of it all. "What they don't say? You're mad!" I hiss after Miles into the night.

There are things that we keep inside, the thoughts of the day and night. A way to get them out is the problem; one that I have always had. With Louisa I've tried to let these things out, to her. No email, no telefax, no mobile. Just words were needed. Only a talk.

The things we didn't discuss, the words we did not say, face-to-face, that is what was missing. What didn't Louisa say? A hell of a lot of words. Damn it Louisa, why didn't you talk to me?

My footsteps echo off the walls as I slink away.


	9. Chapter 9

Emotions

"Um…" Louisa says, almost vibrating as she says this with cheek pressed against mine and arms tight around my neck.

"Louisa?"

"Oh sorry." She loosens her grip. "A hard day. Trying to get things lined up for our trip. School, you know."

"Yes. I have a locum lined up now. A Doctor Davidson will be covering surgery the day after we leave."

"Martin, you haven't told me where we are going!" she scolds.

"Someplace warm."

"Then I'd better pack another swimming costume."

"Another? How many do you have?"

"Three… or is it four?" She laughs.

"Ah." I don't need to say any more. I managed to buy one. I think it is adequate.

"So, how about a hint Martin?"

"I said that you'd like it."

"I'm not about to let you take just anywhere, you know. I do have my own preferences. "

"Remember the tent or the igloo?" We were discussing where to live, and I mentioned them.

"Yes."

"We'll stay in neither one."

"Oh," she says and leans back on the couch in her cottage. "Don't trust me?"

"No... uh, yes. But do remember your passport."

"Ah. Far away?"

"Far enough." I say. The town has been excited by our upcoming wedding, and they have been quite bothersome. "It will be good to get away from Pauline, Aunty Joan, Penhale, Bert… Do you know that Bert Large actually manufactured a small burn to his hand just so he could make a visit to the surgery?"

She gasps. "Was he badly hurt?"

"No. Just a blister. He claimed he was showing Al how to fry an egg! Preposterous. And I have Aunty Joan calling at all hours about flowers and what color my suit is… gah!"

"Martin has it struck you that they actually like you, in their own way? And they just want to help us get married?"

"What's to like? I'm their bloody GP, not the Vicar."

Louisa sighs. "And I noticed that as you were bemoaning your desire to escape from Portwenn, you said it backwards?'

"Oh?"

She puts her arms around me again and presses against me. "You could have said I can't wait to get away with you!"

She's caught me up again. "Right. Yes, I could have, uh, should have, Louisa."

Louisa sighs again. "Martin Ellingham, what ever will I do with you?"

I grasp her arms and pull her to me. "Well, you could…" Then my mobile rings. I pull it out and answer. "Ellingham? Yes. Oh, Davidson. Alright. Yes, my secretary Pauline is totally…" I stop.

Louisa prompts me. "Say, _reliable_ Martin, better than Elaine was."

"Yes, Davidson. Reliable. Yes. She'll have the keys for you on Monday next. You have directions? Good." I ring off and Louisa is shaking her head at me.

"Honestly, Martin. You have to at least try…"

I'm looking at her with reserve. "Try, Louisa? Try to say that Pauline is reliable? That's a good one!"

"Martin, you silly goose, she is. Who draws all your bloods and sends them to lab? You told me yourself that she has been doing a fine job."

Now I'm on the defensive. "Yes, but, when Al comes noodling about she gets all gooey, and whatever she's doing…" the mobile rings again. "It's Aunty Joan," I say, exasperated.

"Give me that!" Louisa rips the thing from my hand. "Joan? Hello, it's Louisa. Yes were just talking about the wedding. I see." She looks at me. "She says she's rung you three times today and you've hung up twice on her. Naughty." She turns her mouth back to the device. "Yes, we'll have to sort it I suppose. Alright! Will do!" She snaps the thing shut and gives me a hard look. "Martin, don't you dare be mean to Joan. She's practically the only family you have!"

"Well, yes, but she kept calling during working hours…" Louisa is right but I resist, not that it will do much good. "And…"

"Martin, do shut up! Now look. You are the closest thing to a son that Aunty Joan has. Don't you dare think that you will go forward being mean to her." She crosses her arms and gives me a hard look. "I know you can't help your mum and dad being the way they are, but by God, you will behave to her! And you can show a little decency to everyone else once in a while too! Here," she finishes and throws the mobile into my hands.

The blowup is an echo of three nights past when we parted. This is actually the most civil we've been to each other since. But it still feels like driving a car on ice. "Alright."

Louisa stands up and towers over me. "And… you will please, please, please," she drops to her knees and takes my hands, "try, really, try to be more than civil? For me? These are our friends Martin!" Her head slumps and I feel something wet hit my left hand.

"No, Louisa, don't…"

"Yes, Martin, I will cry, damn it, if I wish to, and I do." Tears are dribbling down her cheeks. "Don't you ruin this Martin Ellingham, don't you dare ruin this." Her voice lowers. "I need you to help me get through all this."

"Oh, Louisa, stop."

"No, Martin. This will be very hard you all of us. You, me, and the town."

"Hard? What's so hard about getting married? We go to church, they play music or whatever, the Vicar says some things…" I wave a hand. "We're married.'

Louisa's hazel eyes grow wide. "Oh, Martin. My God. You don't really think that is all, do you? I've got my friend Isobel coming into town Thursday and that poor girl is practically ready to pop she's so preggers, Pauline is driving me crazy with her bridesmaid-routine, there are a million details to go through, I have a funny feeling that Bert and Al will not be able to pull off the reception, Roger is all mushy over giving me away, it's a freaking typhoon here and somehow you don't seem to be affected!"

"Oh."

"That's all you'll say?"

"Louisa look. We'll get through this, uh, you'll get through this."

She shakes her head violently. "And Martin, please call Joan and talk about flowers, and make nice alright?" She stands. "I'm off to the loo." She wipes her face and gives me a pleading look. "Please?"

I call Aunty Joan as she goes upstairs and with great civility discuss flowers, ribbons, and timing for Saturday.

Joan ends the call with, "Marty. I'll be so glad to see you married Saturday. You are happy, aren't you?"

I hear the loo flush. "Yes, I will be, that is I am happy. Thanks. Goodbye." Embarrassing.

"Martin," Louisa calls from above. "Did you call her?"

I walk to the foot of the stairs. "Yes, I did. Need anything?"

"Yes."

I hear a door open.

"Please come up," she calls down.

"Alright." I find her in the bedroom, sitting on her bed, looking a bit fresher. "Still mad?" I ask.

"No, not really." She pats the mattress. "Sit here."

I sit and she hugs me.

"Just hold me, ok?"

I put my arms around her. She's shaking.

"I love you, Martin."

"And I love you, Louisa."

She burrows into my neck. Anger, love, exasperation, admiration, friendship; it's very hard to separate them at times.


	10. Chapter 10

Changes

In a few days we'll be married. All of Portwenn is involved in some way I suppose. Louisa has been wearing herself out, partially driven by herself and her drive for perfection, as well as the expectations of others.

Pauline has been so giggly and giddy lately I actually wondered if she was drinking her breakfast. The parade of villagers continues and I am almost at whit's end. Today I had to clear out the waiting room, and when all the skivers from their work were ushered out only old Mr. Mann was left sound asleep, being so deaf the hubbub was beyond his meager hearing.

Ah to be away will be nice, with Louisa. She blundered past me as I went out on a call and had not time to talk, which I could tell hurt her. I called her on the mobile though. She was alright, just wanted to ask how much money she should bring. I suggested that since we would be man and wife I should pay for the trip. She acquiesced to my supposition.

I'm not sure if that is some sort of West Country custom, or if Louisa is being cautious. Nice to have pocket money, and I will provide for her of course… what ever she wants. Today the parade of villagers goes on, those I know and those I've never seen, waving to me on the street or up on the moor.

"Good luck, doc!" they call.

I was coming back from the call out, a farmer's Polish helper who got a digit caught in a gate, and there was concern about the injury, tetaneous, and whether hospital was best. I swallowed hard, cleaned the finger, and stitched it on the spot.

The farmer looked down at the completed stitching and said, "Doc, seven little stitches? Lord ah could do that meself."

So much for a medical degree and years of training. Stupid oaf.

But I was able to resist vomiting until I drove from the yard. Five hundred yards down the road I had to pull over and lose my lunch. My haeomophobia continues, apparently, although there have been times I could suppress the urge, although Palmer sweating happens still. When the vaso-vagal reflex kicks in the reflux response is automatic and usually immediate.

I took a few minutes to recover and appreciated the beauty of the moor. The rolling upland hills covered in heather and gorse, an area inhabited since Late Bronze Age times. Phoenicians may have traveled here for tin and also silver. The sea has had bounty enough along with the land for all these years. I read that there are now more than a half-million living in Cornwall, but I only see a few hundred in Portwenn and the countryside. Such a contrast to teeming London – once my home and workplace.

As I drove back I pondered the past three years and what a time it has been. Oh, hard enough to build up the practice and getting accustomed to the locals has been… interesting. And I have had many times I have been confounded by the locals and their customs. Bodmin all the way. But there have been compensations.

One in particular, Louisa Glasson… Louisa. I believe she hated me on sight on the commuter flight. Her eye disease grew more and more apparent as the flight continued, and as I attempted each time to observe her right eye, she grew more agitated.

Finally she leaned forward and shouted, "You've got problems!"

The inauspicious start of our relationship and courtship. There were so many missteps and detours on the way. Everytime all seemed lost. Neighbors and policemen butting in, unsettled park rangers with six-foot squirrels, plumbing that wouldn't, strange outbreaks of disease, gynecomastia, and numerous

misunderstandings.

Dogs that kept following me such as that mongrel Joe who took bacterial infections to the school children through his fur. And a very odd mix of ailments - a boy, an old woman, and a cat all with tuberculosis – that was a corker. Too many to recall, but the medical files would bear out of the ordinary reading for the locum next week.

Next week. Next week … I'll be married… to the beautiful creature asleep on the couch in the front room of my cottage. Louisa lays on her side, legs pulled up, arms crossed across her breasts, gently snoring with a thin string of spittle across her parted red lips.

It's late and tomorrow her friend Isobel will be coming to Portwenn. Then comes Friday and our wedding Saturday. We leave Sunday on our honeymoon. I hope that Louisa enjoys the trip. One short week away then we must return to surgery and school. Have to start packing what I'll take to move to her cottage; not much really, the medico gear stays in Fern Cottage, the surgery.

That will be different. Have to commute to work, rather than fifty feet, almost a quarter mile down hill then up again.

And having Louisa. That will be a brilliant change. The past month has been a whirlwind of change – the proposal, the quick date, wedding preps, she found a dress quickly enough, but the month has been too short and too long both.

Too long to wait to be together and we didn't, thank God, and too short to fully appreciate what had happened. I hope, no pray, that we have things sorted out. Nothing could be worse… no, that's false.

Worst of all would be never having her. What if the medical council had refused me the Portwenn GP post? More concerning, what if the haemophobia had never developed or started later? I'd have ended up somewhere else. Been in London hospital or on the Isle of Mann.

When I was very young and at public school I prayed - yes there _was_ a time Martin that you prayed regularly - that someone would swoop in and rescue me. Then my ideal was Aunty Joan and Uncle Phil. Those few weeks a year on the farm near Portwenn was heaven. But father put a stop to that, I now know. That bastard – he thought it was making me soft.

But there was also some idea of someone else. Some rescuer – a super hero – or some such. Louisa stirs and stretches, opens her eyes and flashes her false eyelashes at me.

"Martin? How long have I been asleep?"

"Not long," I lie. It's been about an hour and a half. She's tired out.

She glances at her watch. "Oh, God look at the time."

"It's only round ten."

"Alright. But I should be going…"

"You want to?"

"No."

"I want you to stay."

As she considers it, I can almost see the wheels turning. My super heroine delightfully stretches her arms over head and behind. "I do believe Martin Ellingham that you are trying to corrupt me."

"Well, I can try."

Later in the dark, I hear her sniffle into her pillow.

"Louisa, is something wrong?"

She doesn't answer but rolls over and clings to me.


	11. Chapter 11

Endings

She's gone. I stood there and watched her walk away. The same way I watched Edith walk down the jet way twenty years ago as she left for Canada.

Why didn't I say something? My brain works, the pathways to my speech centers are intact, I don't have vocal nodules or cancer, and I had air in my lungs. But there was no word which would stop her. Why not Stop or I'm Sorry or Come Back or I Love You?

I tried to speak before she started down the hill.

Louisa looked at me, her pretty face almost smiling. "I know. Me too," she said. "See you around."

Then I stood there with rigid back and sinking heart and watched that lovely woman walk down the hill and away from me. Away from the surgery, Fern Cottage.

Why didn't I run after her? Running down hill is relatively straight forward. I have a normal sense of balance, my eyes work quite well, and my legs and motion centers are intact. Taking a step requires a slight forward lean to shift one's center of gravity forward, and even in cases of brain-damage, will usually result in an automatic bringing up of a leg to maintain balance. Then the stepping, or running process, comes into play. It should have been easy.

Was it pride? Lord knows I've been embarrassed plenty these last three years, so I could have chased her down, made her stop, pleaded with her, taken her to the church, and we'd be married. I would sacrifice every self respect to have that happen.

Yet I stood there, watching the white dress, dark hair, hazel eyes, lovely smile, and fantastic spirit of the woman that I love, walk away.

Sacrifice? What a thought. What have I sacrificed or would be willing to sacrifice?

My pride, my self, my mind and body to have her. My God, what have I done?

I managed to kick out that stupid git of a clothes cleaner with a regimen of ibuprofen and a heat pack for his leg. He looses my suit and then interrupts Louisa and me at the worst time. Yes that was the time for a change. Just then…

After I slammed the door behind his silly arse, I marched into the waiting room and switched off the phone ringer – there were five messages waiting. I knew what they would be. I silenced the mobile as well – another eight calls parked there.

Where are you Martin? Is there a problem? Has the car broken down – do you need a lift? What's wrong? I've tried to reach Louisa and she's not answering either. What's going on? Hello doc, where are you? Doc, doc? Doc Martin?

That's what they will say. I don't need to hear them.

I wouldn't make her happy. That's it - all of it. And she wouldn't make me happy. I was sitting on the leather couch looking at the wedding band resting on the table. The ring that I knew would never be on Louisa's finger. I knew that all was lost. So I took action by doing nothing. Then she walked into the kitchen. Her letter… said it her own way. She knew too.

"I make her happy!" Vicar Porter said was the proper answer. I failed the test. Better to know now than later.

Chalk and cheese the two of us. Fools to think we could make a go it. Aunty Joan will know better than anyone else about me. I'm certain she's furious, but at the end of the day she will understand her Marty.

I'm perfectly willing to take all the blame, if that would help. I can once again be the outsider – the townie who's gone Bodmin, if I must. I once was a great surgeon but I started over. But I don't know if I can begin again.

As a GP I cared for the people of Portwenn and like a bloody fool, I now realize that they care for me! Why else would they worry about me and Louisa? Why would they want me - us, to be happy – to be wed?

But we won't be married. Louisa won't marry me. And I won't marry her.

What of those nights in Louisa's bed or mine? Didn't that mean something? Anything? Could it have meant nothing? It had to mean something… anything.

Louisa took me as I was; as I am. She didn't try to change me. But I should have tried to do so for her sake – for my sake. I should have gone more than halfway. That sacrifice was needed but I hadn't even considered it 'til now. Damn. I'm blind.

I need her, right now, though she's a quarter mile away across the bay. How long will it take for that that… feeling … to fade? To be gone entire?

From the first times I saw her on the plane, at the interview, in the surgery, her school, the harbor, in the market, on the street – she was unique and always special. This brilliant brown haired girl who always came back, in spite of me. I didn't know just how special she was. And she must have seen something in me as well. Something to keep unchanged.

My God, Louisa has melted my heart – all the armor I welded onto it gone – and now I have to build it up again. Replace it with something hard and strong. But I don't want to. Lord God I don't want to.

I take off the suit coat and tie, drink a glass of water, and unpack my suitcase. I hold up the swimming costume I bought. The leaping dolphins on the shirt laugh at me. Shoes and trainers go into the closet, shirts and trousers onto hangers, all the rest packed away. The suitcase goes into the wardrobe at the back. The toiletries I place in the lav.

I tap my passport and our plane tickets on my hand. I'll call the airline and cancel; the resort as well. I drop them onto the desk in the surgery and on impulse take from the bookshelf _Guide to Gastrointestinal Disorders_. I flip the book open and there lays the dried and flattened yellow flower Louisa picked for me at Holly's concert. I touch the dried thing for a moment, then snap the pages shut; put the book back on the shelf.

Two hours have passed. The light falls and I step outside. Portwenn lies in the fading pink sunshine and a few lights begin to defy the night.

Louisa's cottage lies dark - but there, one lights switches on. It's in the upstairs bedroom. She must be there, perhaps with Pauline, Roger, Aunty Joan, or one of the other teachers. Or she stands alone in her red and white bedroom that I shall never see again.

I lift my mobile. With a push of a single button I could call her. And ask her… what? Come back or let's start over?

I should call hospital and check on Isobel and her baby boy. The sudden labor and delivery of the baby at the top of the hill was a shock for her and me. And her acute eye injury needs a follow-up. But at least her delivery went well in the open under non-hygenic conditions. Considering the disasters of the day it was appropriate.

Did Louisa want to speak to me then? She tried to.

Joe, the shaggy grey dog comes up the street with tail wagging. I've chased him off many times, yet here he is, back again. I don't understand his attraction for me or the cottage. He wouldn't stay on Aunty Joan's farm; he managed to follow me back from the moors and time after time has followed me through the town. I don't know why.

I should be hungry. I should eat something. The dog looks up at me, tail wagging. I bend over and touch his head. The tail wags faster and he sits down, looks up at me through the floppy hair on his face with his wet tongue lolling out of his mouth. His black nose is wet and he licks it. He hasn't a care in the world.

With a will I go into Fern Cottage and turn on every light – upstairs and down. Entering the kitchen I rummage in the fridge and pull out a piece of steak. Blood drips onto the cutting board as I slice it into small pieces and by some miracle I do not grow nauseous. I put the slices onto a tissue and carry it outside.

Joe sits with his back to me but turns and stands as the door opens. "Here," I say and put the meat on the ground. The dog looks at me quickly and then begins to eat. He finishes in a few gulps and looks up for more. I have none.

I sit on the flagstones next to him. He smells of old fish, fresh grass and that peculiar odor of dog. I rest my hand on his shaggy head and he doesn't seem to mind.

Portwenn lights up more and a few figures appear near the harbor and on the streets. They will have plenty to discuss over dinner and breakfast tomorrow and for many days and nights to come.

The sky darkens but the lights of Fern Cottage seem bright - bright against the dark.

And the light in Louisa's cottage shines bright as well.

- The End -

_To __**fanfiction**__ readers – this story covers the time from Martin Ellingham's proposal to Louisa Glasson to the night of their non-wedding. A period of a few weeks, I suppose._

_It was a challenge to "climb into" Martin but I some ways he is like all of us at times - proud, too smart for his own good, shy as well, stand-offish, tongue tied and at times incredibly pompous and chauvinistic. Well perhaps I am that way!_

_I couldn't give this story a happy ending, coming as it does at the end of season three of the show, no matter how tempting it was to see Martin and Louisa arrive at the altar – the star-crossed lovers._

_I've tried to hold to Doc Martin "lore" and any missteps are my own, either from misunderstanding or due to being an American trying to write for British characters._

_Any errors of language or terms are also mine, in spite of the gentle corrections of many of you – and I thank you for your help and care. So I say to all of you - thank you for the tips, appreciative comments, ideas, reviews and messages. I could not have done it without you, or if I had this story would be a pale shadow of itself! Thanks to all of you._

_See you in Portwenn!_

_Cheers,_

_Rob_


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